


Problems, Pubs and Pirates

by Anonymous



Category: Ghosts (TV 2019) RPF, Horrible Histories RPF
Genre: Awkward bean Larry, Dates, Friendship/Love, Getting Together, M/M, Sharing a Bed, There was only one bed :D, Weirdly thrifty Ben, Which they don't realise are dates, stage kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:46:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28658187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: They sit, shocked, staring at the neatly typed ‘The End’.It’s funny. It’s also heartfelt; genuinely, he hopes, touching. It’s not a fitting send-off for Simon, nothing ever could be, but it works for Julian. It also throbs from the screen, the enormity of what they’ve just done. They’ve written their friend out.“We could just delete it,” Ben says, breaking the silence. “No one would ever know.”“We don’t even know we’ve got a fourth season,” Larry replies.
Relationships: Larry Rickard/Ben Willbond
Comments: 16
Kudos: 29
Collections: Anonymous





	Problems, Pubs and Pirates

**Author's Note:**

> I didn’t mean to write this (I've never written RPF before?!), but then I figured I’d type it to get it out of my head and it was suddenly so long I had to finish it, and then when it was done, it seemed weird not to post it, so... enjoy? 
> 
> I’ve watched the odd interview (and obviously, HH/Ghosts/Bill) but everything else is completely fabricated. If I’ve hit on anything correct in terms of their backstories or whatever, it was entirely accidental. This is 100% a work of fiction. 
> 
> Also the rating is just to be safe, and mainly there because of some swearing.

“Shit.”

Even through the Zoom call, the quiet words from their director pull everyone to attention.

“What?” Mat asks finally, when it seems like nothing more is forthcoming.

Tom sighs. “Simon’s availability just shrunk. He’s got some big new film apparently, that was his agent.”

“The new _Die Hard,”_ chips in Martha. “He was telling me about it on WhatsApp earlier. I didn’t know he’d got it, though! That’s so exciting.”

“Yeah well unfortunately, what’s great for Simon is awkward for the rest of us.” Tom pages through his script - printed out, even at this stage, he’s old school - and then glances back up at the camera. “Any chance you can cut down on the Julian scenes? We could take him out of the plague pit ghosts entirely. But here, this one in episode two - maybe Kitty could be talking to the Captain instead.”

“That changes the entire flow of the scene,” argues Mat. Larry nods; it’s his script mainly, and the whole point of that conversation is that it’s inappropriate enough to turn Kitty inside out and send her wailing off to Alison. The Captain would never go that far. 

“Robin? Maybe?” suggests Martha.

“It’s wordplay,” Ben interjects, “Robin can’t-”

“Okay, well not that scene then.” Tom scrubs a hand through his hair and flicks through the script again. “But we’ve only got him for two weeks now, and there’s no way we can get all this filmed in that time. We’re going to have to squash the group scenes together, but he’ll need to lose screen time unless we want to delay shooting until after _Die Hard.”_

“We-”

“A solution the BBC is unlikely to approve,” he adds, which shuts them all up. They know how lucky they are, how much budget and time has been funnelled into them over and over again. _Ghosts_ might be proven by now, but it still isn’t an easy show to film. 

“How much screen time?” Larry asks. It’s a nothing question. He knows how much can reasonably be filmed in two weeks, even working long days. It’s a delaying tactic, like Tom will shrug and say just a couple of scenes. They’re always careful to be as scrupulously equal as possible, within the parameters of the story - a couple of scenes would be doable. But beyond that, each ghost brings something different to the table. Removing Julian will upset the whole balance, unless they’re painstakingly careful. This is more than a few hours with a red pen. It’s substantial rewrites.

“Take him off at least forty pages.” 

Larry doesn’t nod; none of them do, he notices. They try to move on, but having Tom’s input makes little sense now they know the scripts are going to change so much, so they wrap up the meeting earlier than planned. He closes his laptop, and reaches for his phone.

_Congratulations on the role, Si! Die Hard, v cool. And you’re used to filming without shoes, so walking barefoot on broken glass will be a breeze._

It’s meant genuinely; it is cool. He’ll be first in line for a ticket at the cinema. It’s also… not wholly unexpected. Simon’s been missing interviews and promo left and right - his career is taking off, Hollywood calling, and none of them begrudge him it. That’s one of the benefits of having six of them, plus Charlotte, Kiell, Katy and Lolly - if there’s something you can’t do, someone else can easily pick up the slack. Martha’s missed a few too, Ben had an engagement he couldn’t get out of - even he had that emergency dentist appointment last month. 

But still. It’s starting to feel a little bit like five idiots and sometimes that other guy.

His phone rings, and he startles - then sees it’s Ben calling. He picks up, putting it on speaker and rooting around in the fridge for lunch.

“Do you want to get together tomorrow for rewrites?” Ben asks without preamble. He unearths last night’s leftovers and pops them in the microwave.

“Yeah, can do.”

“It’s great about Simon, isn’t it? _Die Hard._ It’s almost like a new Indiana Jones, or Star Wars.”

“I don’t know about that, mate, no one can top you in _Drifters_ for me.”

The jibe does what it’s meant to; Ben laughs, and he feels his own shoulders loosen in response. It’s okay. This isn’t some dire situation, it’s not the end of the road, it’s just a chance to eat Ben’s snacks while they hash out some revisions. 

“I’ll come round at ten, yeah?”

“Yeah, let yourself in.”

\--

Ben doesn’t answer when Larry knocks the next morning; he does as he’s told, and uses his spare key to make it past the Yale lock, before settling on the sofa and firing up his laptop. The sound of a kettle boiling solves the mystery. 

By the time Ben appears with two mugs, he’s paging through the shared script document they store on the cloud. Martha’s already made some of the changes that occurred to him on the train ride over - not a surprise, they always are on the same wavelength, writing-wise. She’s scrubbed Julian from a garden scene where he was mostly an observer, and then scrawled notes over an argument with the Captain, saying Thomas could do just as good a job at pissing the Captain off, but they’ll have to shift the thrust of the conversation and tie it back to the scene three pages before.

They get to work, Larry playing the part of Thomas and they try things out, and soon have a decent first stab of the dialogue drafted. Over the course of another two mugs of tea and an entire packet of chocolate Hobnobs, they move on until they reckon they’ve cut and sliced the need for Simon from at least twelve pages. He taps a message to Jim and Mat asking them to take a look, then stretches his arms, before slumping back on the sofa.

“Ugh,” he says, intelligently.

Ben smirks, and stretches out next to him, propping his feet on the coffee table. “Will you come with me to see _Die Hard 18,_ or whatever it is they’re on now?”

“So we can stare up at the screen in awe?”

“Exactly.”

“I’ll think about it. I might be washing my hair.”

Ben sucks a breath through his teeth. “I didn’t like to say, but-”

He cuts him off with a punch to the arm. “I was going to order in lunch so you didn’t have to cook, but if you insult the ‘do again, I’ll make you provide for your guest.”

“You’re barely a guest,” Ben counters, but he lets up, tipping his head back until he’s staring at the ceiling. “There’s a good Korean place down the road. Number’s in my phone.”

He finds it in the cushions, taps in the security code and pulls up the number. It’s only when the call is connected and he’s halfway through ordering kongbap and grilled pork belly that he wonders if it’s weird, just a bit, that he knows Ben’s phone code. He doesn’t know Martha’s, or Mat’s. He reels off his credit card number. Nah. It’s just long held proximity, the fact that Ben is an old fart who never changes his passwords, and a good memory. 

“Do you think Simon would want to leave? Make LA permanent?” Ben asks when he hangs up. 

“I don’t know.” He tosses the phone back into Ben’s lap. “I know he likes working with us, but there’s a big difference, career-wise, between blockbusters and BBC sitcoms.”

“Between Margot Robbie, Brie Larsen, Emma Stone, and our ugly mugs.”

Larry studies Ben’s face. “Speak for yourself.”

“But what would we do, if he wants out? It’s not like we can just kill him off.”

They both laugh, but then Larry sobers. “No… but. He could ascend?”

“Julian? You really think he’s the ghost most likely to get himself sorted out? That’d be you, wouldn’t it? Or - you know, Robin. He’s the wisest.”

“Except Robin doesn’t want to go.” He realises what he’s said, what he’s implied, and coughs.

“I suppose Julian has been getting more normal?” Ben says hesitantly. “The thing with his kid, and then this season with Fanny-”

“Who knows what causes ascension anyway? It doesn’t have to be enlightenment, or business finished, that’s overdone, tired, we can make it…”

Before he knows it, they’re hunched over his laptop again, the words spilling out. The idea’s sound, the plot makes sense, but more than that, it’s _good._ They type while eating, grease all over the keyboard, and get a full first draft done in an afternoon - then sit, shocked, staring at the neatly typed ‘The End’. 

It’s funny. It’s also heartfelt; genuinely, he hopes, touching. It’s not a fitting send-off for Simon, nothing ever could be, but it works for Julian. It also throbs from the screen, the enormity of what they’ve just done. They’ve written their friend out.

“We could just delete it,” Ben says, breaking the silence. “No one would ever know.”

“We don’t even know we’ve got a fourth season,” Larry replies. He doesn’t want to delete it though. Much as he can hardly bear to look at it, this is also some of his best work. Writing is hard, most of the time - it’s a painstaking knitting together of ideas and gags and scraps of dialogue into a quilted whole. It takes rewrites and revisions and so much collaboration - it takes an ego at times, and humility at others. This just poured out of him and Ben, practically fully formed. It’ll need some tidying and tying into whatever their overall season arc ends up being, if they use it, but he’s pretty sure it’s the best first draft he’s ever produced. He presses the save button, painstakingly types _Ghosts S4 epX draft_ as the file name.

“Tea?” asks Ben, shooting to his feet. Larry lets him go, closing the lid of the laptop, then follows him through to the kitchen. He knows his way around, so grabs two clean mugs while Ben puts the kettle on. He waits until the milk’s back in the fridge, and the tea bags are in the food waste.

“We don’t even know if we’ll get a fourth season,” he repeats, cupping his mug in his hands. 

“We probably won’t,” Ben agrees, though they both know that’s rubbish. The reception to seasons one and two was phenomenal, then the Christmas special won them even more fans. Unless season three completely falls apart when they try to film it, the BBC will keep backing their winning horse.

“Yeah,” he says anyway. “Probably not.”

\--

They start filming two weeks later. It’s strange being on site without Simon, but he’s been pinned down to arrive in five days’ time, and in the meantime, they get started on some of the smaller one on one or three person scenes. 

The night he turns up, they go out for a big cast and crew dinner. They end up back in their hotel rooms by ten, because they are now, mostly, sensible adults who know they’re facing down the mammoth task of filming all the group stuff in the fifteen days Simon can give them before his responsibilities pull him back across the pond to LA.

It doesn’t mean he can sleep.

He regrets it the next morning, and the one after that. Beyond that he’s too exhausted to care, and can’t help but think it wouldn’t have made much difference by this point anyway. They’re filming all out of order - not just the scenes, that’s normal, that’s how television works - but the episodes too, and despite being as familiar with the script as it’s possible to be, it’s making his brain bend a bit. They’re spending easily thirteen, fourteen hours on set every day, and getting into Robin’s prosthetics lands him squarely in the makeup chair earlier still each morning.

It’s good though. He can tell it’s working. The crew are laughing, the jokes are landing - that fear he always gets is dissipating, seeing the reactions. He always views the film crew as a kind of beta audience - if it’s not hitting at this point, then they need some urgent rethinking and a freer rein on the improv. But what they all thought was funny back in summer when they were first bashing it out over video calls is still funny now, with the wine haze and lockdown lunacy lifted. 

Something feels off, though. Maybe it’s the punishing pace, maybe they’re just all tired. But Martha isn’t corpsing as much as usual, Mat isn’t ad-libbing for the blooper reel, Ben hasn’t broken shot _once_ , like he’s some kind of acting _machine_ \- it’s just all... off.

He groans and buries his head in his hands. Filming is on schedule, somehow, and they might actually finish everything they need to in the three days they have left. He should be damn happy; this was an ask of epic proportions. He’s running on fumes, he’s in his hotel bed, and still. 

He gets like this sometimes. So tired he can’t fall asleep. 

He gets up, almost on autopilot, and shrugs into the complimentary dressing gown. He’s brought his own slippers from home, and pulls them on too, then shuffles out into the corridor. It’s not that late, and he takes a moment to be glad the hallway is deserted. He doesn't often get recognised; it’s not like he’s a huge star, and most of his work has been conducted from beneath heavy makeup, wigs, and prosthetics, but it would be sods law that now is when an old Horrible Histories fan would stroll by on their way back from the bar and ask for a photo.

He knocks softly, listens to the muffled sounds of someone making their way to the door, and then it unlatches and swings open. Ben smiles, though Larry thinks he might have woken him up.

“Can’t sleep?”

He shakes his head, and Ben steps back, letting him into the room. It’s an old routine, worn smooth with time, and Larry heads straight for Ben’s suitcase to liberate the bottle of whiskey he keeps there, because even now he refuses to pay minibar prices. Ben drops two toothbrush glasses on the desk, and Larry pours them both restrained measures. He sinks into the armchair while Ben sprawls back on the bed, propped up against the headboard. The sheets are in disarray; he had woken him up.

“Sorry,” he says, with a wave at the sheets. He takes a sip and closes his eyes, leaning his head back and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“What’s wrong?”

“Do things feel weird to you? I don’t know,” he continues, not giving Ben a chance to answer. “I’m probably being too sensitive.”

“You’ve been pretty quiet. And Jim’s started trying to help Charlotte when she gets the giggles, instead of actively hindering.”

He nods. “And Louise, that new girl on hair, she was crying yesterday at lunch. I mean, it could have been anything, but…”

“We’re all just tired,” Ben says with a yawn, that makes him feel guilty for even being here. He drains his glass, meaning to go, but then Ben motions at the bottle and Larry pours them both another. “Trying to get through the takes and keep everything to time.”

Maybe the whiskey is making him maudlin - is that even possible after one glass? - but, “is it going to be like this from now on?”

“No, we’re just stretched right at the moment, with Simon’s-”

“But Simon’s great. You know he is. Hollywood’s not going to dry up on him. Is this how our Them There projects are going to be now, always...” He sighs. He knows he’s not being fair, but it comes out anyway. “Always shoved into the edges.” It’s just because _Ghosts_ is his big thing. Anything the six of them do, that’s always his big thing. He’s not jealous, exactly - he loves seeing his friends go off and shine in other projects - but this is the first time it’s really hit home that one of them might be getting too big for it. For silly hats and silly walks and silly accents and… he just. He just _likes_ the silly accents.

“Not for me.”

He smiles at Ben sadly, but it does make him feel better. Then he feels guilty for that. Ben could be as big as Simon, if he wanted. He’s got range, he’s got a CV full of credits - _Good Omens_ , for God’s sake, even if it was a bit part - he’s got the face, too. But he always seems happiest, most relaxed, around the six of them. Much like Larry himself, to be honest. He can write more widely, but when it comes to acting - he prefers the side roles, the ensemble, and he prefers to have his friends right there with him.

“Not for me either.”

“We should probably ask. He might… not think he can leave.”

His stomach drops again. He tells himself dinner was a long time ago, and alcohol on an empty stomach is never a good idea. He knows its bullshit. It’s six idiots becoming five - then perhaps four, then three, then nothing at all, that’s making him feel queasy. He knows they’d stay friends, but it wouldn't be the _same._ Even so, he can’t stand in Simon’s way. He can’t hold onto them all so tight that regrets and missed chances start to fester, and drive them apart forever. 

“Yeah,” he agrees quietly, then adds, like it’s become their refrain and thinking of an afternoon in Ben’s house when words spilled like grains of rice from his fingers, “we might not even get a fourth season anyway.”

\--

He gets up the next morning with a dry mouth and the beginnings of a headache. He swallows two paracetamol, then makes a triple strength instant coffee in a to-go cup and takes it into the shower with him. By the time he’s tumbled into some clothes and down the hallway to catch the lift, he’s almost awake.

Ben’s inside, running late too, and as the doors close Larry grins sheepishly. “Sorry again about waking you up last night.”

“Oh, no problem. As soon as you started talking I fell right back asleep.”

“Because I’m so boring? That joke’s weak, Willbond, even for you.”

Ben mimes checking his watch, although there’s nothing on his wrist. “That might be because it’s not yet six AM, and someone woke me up last night.”

He grins, and hands over the rest of his coffee as an apology. Ben drinks it and winces. 

“Some people enjoy late night visitors.”

“Some late night visitors put out.” 

The door pings open as his jaw drops, and he scurries after Ben as he sweeps away. There’s a car waiting, Jim already inside in the front passenger seat. They get in the back and the driver starts on the short drive to set. 

“Cheap whiskey doesn’t really work for me,” he murmurs, and then Jim turns around and the conversation shifts to line running and discussion over intonation. Jim makes him laugh with his delivery of what, with another actor, could be quite a staid statement, and before he knows it he’s in the makeup chair and on his way to becoming a caveman again and he suddenly realises what he said to Ben.

And what it implied.

It was just a joke. He’s sure they must have veered into that kind of weird best friends gag running banter before, although admittedly it’s more likely to have happened after a few pints than a couple of glugs of over-strong coffee.

Anyway. Nothing to worry about.

\--

He doesn’t get a chance to obsess over it. Or, that is to say, he _does_ , but he can’t do anything about it because they’re all pedal to the metal and when they clock off for the night he actually _can,_ and _does,_ fall asleep. Sometimes still clothed.

Today he’s being Humphrey though, which means he can throw on jeans and a t-shirt and the only glue on his face will be holding on the beard instead of the fake brow and nose. It’s almost a holiday.

They end up running late, and he could have skipped out an hour ago if he really wanted to, but they’ve got this far together so he slumps in a chair and watches the final Julian scene. It takes longer than it should, everyone tripping over their lines, but eventually they get enough usable footage in the can to call it.

“We should get dinner,” announces Martha, still in full Fanny get-up and clutching Simon’s arm. “Your flight’s tomorrow, isn’t it? We can’t let you go without saying goodbye.”

“Yep, twelve hours on a plane and then straight into rehearsals.”

Larry winces. It’s easy to get frustrated with Simon, with all of them running themselves ragged so he can get back to his other projects - but the fact is the rest of them are facing down four glorious days off to make up for the punishing schedule. Not a cross-Atlantic flight and then back to work without a break.

“You’re definitely owed a drink then, mate.” He claps Simon on the shoulder. “There was a pub in the village, hopefully they can squeeze us in.”

It is a bit of a crush, with a table shoved onto the end of a booth, but they manage to crowd in. They order and eat and drink, and it has an air of wrap party to it despite the fact that most of them have another few weeks’ filming to go. Katy cries off first, paying her bill at the bar, then Kiell. They relinquish the extra table to some locals, and squash into the booth now there’s less need for elbow room. Ben makes faces at him from the other side of the table, then rolls his eyes, taps into his phone, and Larry’s own phone buzzes against his leg. He reads the message.

_Ask him._

Oh. Well, yes, he supposes he is right next to Simon. But really, the question would be better coming from Martha, or even Jim. But they never got around to talking about it more widely, so Martha and Jim don’t know, and Ben is sandwiched between Lolly and Charlotte on the far side of the table.

“Si,” he starts, with a prod to the leg. “You keep nursing that beer, you’ll actually be sober for your flight,” he chickens out.

“That my cue!” chirps Charlotte, sliding to her feet. “Same again, everyone?”

They all nod, and he tries again. “So, reckon we’ll get a fourth season?” Martha has turned to Jim and Mat, and Lolly and Ben seem to be playing hangman on the back of a beer mat. There’s no reason for the slight jump in his voice, and he coughs, as if he’s got a frog in his throat. 

“Don’t see why not,” says Simon. “The filming seemed to come together, and the ratings are pretty cracking.”

“So you’d…” he trails off, thankful for the interruption when Charlotte dispenses drinks. “I just mean, none of us are actually tied in, you know?”

“To another season?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Don’t you think there should be a fourth?”

“No, of course there should! But just because the characters are all dead, doesn’t mean we can’t... work something out. If anyone wanted to leave.”

He can see the realisation hit. It’s not like he’s managed to be that subtle, not considering it’s Simon’s goodbye dinner. Something flickers across Simon’s face, and he feels a bit like he’s stabbed him in the gut. Or maybe stabbed himself. 

“We don’t want you to,” he tries to mitigate. “But you’re the big star now…” He runs out of words. He’s always been better with the written down; he should have tried setting this conversation out like a scene, maybe then the dialogue would have flowed. Maybe then it wouldn’t have felt clunky and hurtful, and somehow both too much and too little all at once. 

“Not that big,” Simon quips, “except in feet and inches.” He adds a Julian-esque leer to the last word, and they’ve known each other too long for the act to convince, but he smiles back all the same until Martha drags Simon into her conversation with Jim.

He checks out a bit after that. Charlotte and Lolly leave, and then it’s just the six of them again. Charlotte left most of a bottle of wine behind, so he tops Martha’s glass up, then steals Charlotte’s for himself and fills it. Mat keeps sneaking sips too, and it’s somehow so much like their early days, late twenties and half-broke, that it makes his chest hurt. Thirteen years. Jesus.

“Right, if I don’t call it a night now, I’m going to have to push straight through to dawn,” announces Simon. “Come here you miserable lot.” He hugs Martha, then Jim, then Mat. Slightly different for each of them, Larry can’t help but notice. Martha like a sister, Jim like a mate, Mat almost like a younger brother. But then, he’s always been the baby. It’ll never quite go away, no matter how old he gets. 

He hugs Larry, and Larry surprises himself by holding tighter than he intended. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and gets an answering squeeze in return. “Come back.”

“I’ll see you again soon,” Simon says, pulling back, then gives Ben a quick hug and back slap. Jim and Martha decide to accompany him back to the hotel, and then Mat realises there’s one space left in the taxi idling outside and hotfoots it after them. 

Ben tidies the glasses they’ve left, pushing the empties to the edge of the booth and sliding himself back in. He appropriates Martha’s glass and doles out the dregs of the wine between the two of them, then clinks in an exaggerated cheers. Larry raises an eyebrow.

“No filming tomorrow,” Ben shrugs. “So what did he say?”

“Not a lot,” he sighs. “But I did manage to hurt his feelings, so that’s a good day’s work all round.”

Ben hums, drains his glass and stands. Larry goes to gather himself too, and he’s one arm into his jacket when Ben rounds the corner again and drops into his seat with a whiskey in each hand. “Shouldn’t drown your sorrows in cheap wine,” he says, passing one of the glasses to Larry. He takes a sip; it’s peaty and complex, and warming down to his toes. “So what did you say, and what did he _actually_ say?”

He recounts the conversation, and by the end of it Ben’s almost convinced him that he hasn’t ruined thirteen years of friendship in one night. If nothing else, at least he still has Ben, co-conspirator, co-writer, Ben of the midnight talks and suitcase whiskey, and it might be the fact he’s drunk more alcohol tonight than the past month put together, but right now, that feels like a lot.

Ben’s going home tomorrow; taking the chance to not live out of a hotel room for a few days. Larry couldn't be bothered with the drive - he’s booked in right through. He has his laptop, so figured he’d catch up on sleep, get some writing done on his own projects, pig out on room service and Netflix, and if the walls start closing in, visit one of the English Heritage properties nearby that seem worth a look. He’d been looking forward to it; a little mini holiday, almost. Now four days on his own in a hotel room seems… lonely.

“Last orders,” says the barmaid, dropping by their table and neatly stacking the empties onto an already full tray. “Two more Balvenies, gents?” Ben nods, and she walks off with a smile, reappearing moments later with a bottle and a card machine. She pours and Ben taps his contactless. “Doors shut in twenty,” she says, ripping off the receipt and leaving them to it.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“Charlotte’s wine is your fault,” Ben argues. “Besides, you don’t get drunk on good whiskey.”

“No? How about sozzled? Trollied? Wasted. Sloshed. Smash-”

“Inebriated.” Ben pronounces it with all the pomp and delicacy he reserves for the most upper crust of characters. There’s a shade of the Captain in it, especially with the moustache still in place, and in his drunkenness Larry finds it helplessly amusing. 

“Plastered,” he adds, slipping into his broadest peasant voice.

“Intoxicated,” Ben drawls, holding the x for longer than necessary.

“Bladdered,” Larry tries. He’s running out. Went too hard straight out the gate.

“Tipsy.”

“Uh.... under the table?”

“Are you?”

“You drink someone under the table!”

“Poor show, old bean.”

“Alright, alright.” His head is getting a bit fuzzy; sometimes it makes the words flow and other times, it really doesn’t.

“Alright fellas, that’s time. You’re staying up at the hotel, right?” 

They turn in unison to stare at the barmaid. 

“Uh, yes?”

“Bob’s waiting outside.” At their blank look, she elaborates. “The guy with the taxi. Unless you wanted to walk down a country road in the dead of night?”

They shake their heads, gather their coats, and tip outside into the car idling at the kerb. In Larry’s opinion, there’s no way that was twenty minutes - but their glasses were empty and no doubt she’s got a home and a bed to get to, and apparently their transport was waiting. Bob delivers them to the front door of the hotel via a steady stream of local gossip that flies right over their heads.

“We should give Simon a reason to come back,” Ben says suddenly, as they step into the lift and the doors close. He’s leaned back against the metal bar at waist height, eyes shut and head tipped back. Larry studies the line of his jaw, and it takes a second for the words to register. “Another film. Like Bill. We can write something.”

“For him to star in?”

“For all of us. But yeah. We always said we would.” 

They had. When Bill went down well, they were full of ideas - but they had the last season of Yonderland, and then Ghosts took over, and they were both wider collaborations between all of them. He had his other writing commitments as well, and Ben was off acting in various projects. Somehow all the enthusiasm… didn’t peter out, exactly. Just got drowned out by the rest of the world. 

“Henry VIII?”

“Not if we’re casting Simon in lead,” Larry argues. It’s too much Ben’s role, in his mind - and no doubt will be for their fans too. A surprising number of people have followed them from Horrible Histories on and through to anything else they do as a collective. “Pirates?” 

Ben snorts. “He’d make a good pirate. God, remember Jim as Blackbeard?”

“Who was the female pirate, you know, she basically ruled the seas… she could be the antagonist. Simon would be someone useless but lucky, now lost to history.”

“And we’re his crew?”

“I’m the dogsbody.”

Ben inclines his head. “Of course.”

“You’re his first mate, vying for a coup and the fair heart of Martha-”

“-No,” the lift pings and they exit onto their floor, “Martha’s in disguise on board. More and more people discover she’s a woman, until only Simon is in the dark.” Ben fiddles with the key card to his room.

“So do we have a fair maiden? Is it Mat or Jim?”

“It’s bad luck to have a woman on board, but maybe - oh, fuck it. Look, there’s some of the suitcase whiskey left, do you just want to come in?”

“Because this is all absolute gold that we shouldn't let slip away into the hangover,” Larry agrees sarcastically, following Ben in and immediately ducking into the little bathroom for the toothbrush glasses. 

“Exactly.”

\--

Buzzing. No, more shrill than that. Like an angry bird, trilling away in his ear. He’s trying to sleep. Why is there a bird in his room, let alone next to his pillow? 

He levers his eyes open. Oh. It’s a phone. 

That’s… that’s not his room. His room is green, and that wall is definitely red. And there’s another person in this bed - oh, but he’s only on it, huddled under his own coat instead of covers and - 

He groans as he spies the empty suitcase whiskey bottle. That’ll explain it. A throbbing starts up behind his eyes, and with it, awareness. He remembers finding the cheap whiskey surprisingly drinkable. He remembers tapping away on Ben’s laptop - some stuff about pirates? But he thinks then they got distracted with YouTube - and another whiskey, and he’s pretty sure at some point they had a cup of tea and a complimentary hotel room shortbread.

“Answer the fucking phone,” he pleads, hitting the sleeping lump next to him. The lump groans, flops over, and then the room is mercifully silent.

“Mmm. Yes, this is he.”

Larry stifles a snort. Half asleep and still all ‘this is he’. Bloody public school boys.

“Oh, er, yes, of course. Must be - oh darn it, seems my watch is running slow. I’ll be right down.” A pause, and then, “no!” strangely high pitched. “No, not at all, like I said just the old watch, I really have been meaning to get it replaced. Yes… yes, see you soon.” 

There’s the sound of the room phone landing hard on it’s cradle, and then a relentless scrambling. He winces and levers his eyes open again to see Ben halfway into a shirt. He blinks.

“Get up!” 

“What? Why?” If he had covers, he’d be pulling them over his head right now. As it is… well, he’s comfortable enough with a borrowed pillow and his coat, and he doesn’t see why a simple phone call has to interrupt all that. Especially with his head still banging like a bloody marching band.

“Because I have to check out _now_.”

Oh yeah. Because Ben is leaving today. But check-out isn’t until ten. 

“It is ten!” Oh, maybe he said that out loud. “Gone, actually,” Ben spins away and Larry’s eyes widen as he drops trousers - thankfully not boxers, although also urgh, not changing his underwear? - and then pulls on a pair of jeans. “Get _up,”_ he repeats.

“Just pay for late check-out.”

“No, I said I’d check out in time, they want my room and-”

“Fuck,” he drawls. “Isn’t your head hurting?” He finally drags himself upright. Luckily, he fell asleep fully clothed, so the only thing to do is groan, shuffle, and stuff his feet into his shoes. He watches blearily as Ben hares around the room, then wobbles and clutches his head in the bathroom doorway. “Just - look, just go check out. I’ll pick everything up and dump it in my room for now, then you can collect it without re-enacting supermarket sweep first, alright?”

“Thank you,” Ben says breathlessly, then he’s hopping into his shoes and gone.

Right. He surveys the room. It looks like a bomb hit it, to be honest - he’s pretty sure Ben managed to just make more mess than he sorted. But most of it can be left to the maid, although he knows Ben wouldn’t want that if he was more in his right mind. For now, he picks up the scattered clothes from yesterday and dumps them in the still open suitcase. Then the toiletries from the bathroom, feeling slightly weird handling Ben’s shower gel and shampoo and razor, and finally the laptop from the floor next to the bed, where they must have shoved it when they passed out. He sweeps the zip closed. 

Oh, Ben’s book. He grabs it from the bedside table, then lets himself out and next door into his own room. He slept in his jeans, now awkwardly uncomfortable, so those go straight away - into pyjama bottoms, and then he roots around for the painkillers. He downs two, but keeps the packet out to offer Ben when he stops in for his stuff. 

He eyes the bed longingly. Another hour’s kip would sort out the head, he’s sure. Unfortunately, he has to let Ben back in. He sits up instead of lying down, knowing that’s tempting fate, and flicks through the book. It’s some thriller he hasn’t heard of, something easy and far removed from what they do, but if he knows Ben, he’ll be squirreling away little ideas and plot points that will come in useful in a decade’s time. The spine’s cracked, and the pages fall open at a bookmark.

Except it’s not a bookmark. It’s a photo. 

He doesn’t remember it being taken, although the red carpet reveals it to be an awards ceremony, but then - he’s not looking at the camera. Mat is and Martha is, but Jim’s laughing at something Simon’s saying in his ear, and he and Ben are… looking at each other. His breath catches, and he’d say he’s not sure why - it’s just a picture, they’re just grinning at each other like they do a hundred times a day whenever they’re together, but it’s accompanied by a familiar little pull in his sternum and a rush of fondness and he can’t deny that he knows what that means. At least, what it’s always meant before. It can’t mean that now, obviously.

There’s a knock on the door, and he jumps, dropping the photo. He scrambles for it, pushes it back into place, and throws the book to the end of the bed. Then realises he can’t just call ‘come in’, he actually needs to get up and answer it. 

A sheepish Ben smiles back at him.

“Paracetamol,” he announces, handing over the blister pack, “and suitcase.” He waves a hand at where he’s abandoned it, then flops back on the bed. “And now, I’m off back to sleep.” Just konk out, he tells himself. He’s way too tired and way too hungover to face this. “Are you driving back now?”

“Mm.”

He twists and looks back at Ben; he’s just swallowed the painkillers, and is looking almost grey. “Or are you going to be pulling over every ten minutes to throw up?”

Ben grimaces. “I’m not that bad, just…” he trails off, and Larry gives up. They’re friends. And currently, his friend looks about ready to keel over, as the adrenaline from the early start wears off and leaves him in the full grip of his hangover.

“Ugh,” he groans, turning over and burrowing under the duvet. “Just don’t kick and you can stay here.”

He stays faced away, and tells himself that he doesn't know that Ben strips down to his boxers and t-shirt this time, just because he hears a metallic jingle that might have been a belt. He tells himself he doesn’t know they’re somehow under the covers together, because Ben immediately breaks his only rule and accidentally kicks him with a bare foot as he slips inside.

And it doesn't matter anyway. Because they’re friends, and friends can share a bed without it being weird.

\--

When he wakes up again, the headache is taken care of. He downs three of the little mini toothbrush glasses of water, has a shower, doesn't bother shaving because he has three days in which no one is going to try to glue anything to his face, and by the time he steps back into the bedroom he’s mostly sure whatever that was this morning was a minor blip.

And then Ben emerges from under the covers and groans at him, and if the little stomach flip is still there when his friend is barely awake and coherent and looking like death warmed up, then he’s in trouble. He turns away and fiddles with the kettle.

Except then he’s got two cups of coffee, and he’s delivering one to Ben, who is in bed. His brain skips like a scratched record as he perches on the other side.

“Thanks,” Ben says eventually, when half the coffee is gone. 

He raises an eyebrow.

“For the coffee and the rescue this morning,” he clarifies.

“No problem.”

“God, I’m starving.”

“Lunch?” It was just natural to ask, the automatic response to those words, normally immediately followed up with ruminations on what Kraft services might have pulled out this time. 

“Can I jump in your shower first?”

Oh. Of course; he didn’t get a chance earlier. He manages a nod, and then dumps his mug on the hotel tea tray. “I’ll wait for you in the restaurant,” he says, and escapes downstairs.

By the time they’ve finished lunch, Larry is feeling more normal and Ben is looking more human. It’s also almost three, and a beautiful day out, and the last thing he feels like doing is trudging back up to his hotel room and locking himself in. He scrolls around Google maps on his phone. Turns out there are some Saxon ruins just over a mile away; not a destination as such, there’s no tourist info, just a little dot on the map marking the collection of old stones. He pins it, and flicks over the walking directions.

“What are you doing this afternoon?” Ben asks. Larry shows him the phone, and he peers at it in interest. “Can I come?”

“Sure,” he agrees, and then actually thinks about it. “But it’ll take an hour at least.” It’s not that he doesn't want Ben to come, but he does have a reasonably long drive ahead of him. 

“It’s too nice for sitting in a car.”

And so they find themselves halfway up a hill. They got a bit lost on the way here - the signal cut out, and he hadn't thought to download the map - and had to ask a local dog walker for directions. Now they walk gingerly around the ruins. There’s an information sign, but the detail is scant, and there’s really not a lot to see. They can make out what was probably the outer wall, built thicker and to last, but that’s about it. He sits, flopping back on the grass, and just enjoys the sun.

“I bet they did that too.”

“Huh?” he opens his eyes. 

Ben crouches next to him, then sits with his legs out in front and weight resting back on the heels of his hands. “The people who built this place. I bet they just… lay back and enjoyed the sun.”

“People were always people.”

“Mm.”

It’s one of his favourite things about history. It’s also probably why he likes playing the losers and nobodies, the ones history forgot because they didn’t intersect with a monarch or a battle or a quirk of fate that wrote them into the books, but who _were_ history all the same. The people who lived and breathed and worried and toiled and - yes, laid in the sun for the pleasure of it. 

It’s easy to let himself drift, up here. It feels timeless, and he’s not tired but the sun and gentle breeze does have a kind of soporific effect. He hears a child laughing, far away, and sits up. “Why don’t you just get a room again tonight?” he asks. “There’s a walk we can do that loops up round and along the river, and then a pub at the end that TripAdvisor thinks is top notch.”

“Top notch, really?”

“Number one attraction of the area.”

“I’d put more store in that if I hadn’t looked up Reading once, which listed the train station as number one. That town has abbey ruins and the gaol that held Oscar Wilde.”

Larry shrugs, but Ben is still lying on the grass with his eyes closed, and doesn't see.

“What time is it?”

He twists his wrist and double takes; they’ve been up here longer than he thought. “Just gone five.”

Ben hums, and pushes himself upright. “River walk and a first class gastropub? I guess I can go home tomorrow.”

The route they take is long and looping, pleasant in the slowly waning sun as they dodge family groups and a dog carrying a large stick that threatens to take them out at the knees. At the pub, they find a table outside and eat with the river slipping past beside them. By the time they decide to head back to the hotel, Larry feels like he’s been away for a week, instead of just having had one day off.

“No, I’m sorry sir, we’re fully booked.”

“Really?” Ben asks the hotel receptionist. “No, you see, I need to stay - I was here before actually, but I checked out this morning, and-”

“Why did you check out if you were not leaving?”

“Well I was, but then I decided to stay an extra day-”

“Well we are fully booked.” The receptionist looks suitable contrite, but equally stubborn. “It’s a summer weekend Mr Willbond, and we are in a walkers’ favoured location.”

“Are there any other hotels in the area?”

The receptionist frowns. “You could try the pub down the road; they have two rooms, but I’d expect they’re full.” She pauses, and fiddles with her jacket button. “Let me call them for you and find out.”

Ben turns around with a stiff nod and thank you, and Larry winces at him. “Sorry. I didn’t think, I figured even if your room was taken they’d just put you somewhere else for the night.”

“No, it’s my own fault,” Ben sighs. 

“Can you still drive?”

The receptionist beckons Ben back before he can answer, but the fact is they had two pints apiece with dinner. Logistically, Ben’s almost certainly fine to drive given the meal and the timeframe too - but realistically, he won’t want to risk it, especially given it’s almost ten already.

“Pub’s full too,” Ben says shortly. “And no, I shouldn’t get behind the wheel. Just in case, you know. There’s a Holiday Inn at the motorway junction we came off-”

“That’s nearly twenty miles away!”

“I’ll just get a cab, and in the morning you can come and pick me up to get my car back.” Ben smiles, but Larry’s heart sinks. He’s caused all this kerfuffle, really, because he was having fun and didn’t want the golden afternoon to end. If he’d just kept his mouth shut, Ben would be home already, a wash on and dinner cooked and nothing to deal with before bed but what show to watch from his Netflix queue.

“Just stay with me,” he hears himself offer. But really, it’s the only sensible solution, isn’t it? They did it last night without even meaning to, after all, and they stay at each other’s houses often enough. Besides, if it will save a forty mile round trip and a fifty quid taxi bill, there’s no question surely. “It’s ridiculous you going all that way.”

“I-”

“Mr Willbond?” They both turn, and the receptionist calls over, “I’ve got through to the Holiday Inn, would you like a double or a double superior?”

“I… never mind,” Ben says. “I’ll stay with my friend for the night.”

She looks at them both curiously. “It’ll be an extra £20 for non-single occupancy.”

“That’s fine, just put it on the bill.” Her eyes flicker from Ben to Larry, and he nods to reinforce his words. She smiles, murmurs into the phone and hangs up, then taps at her keyboard. 

“Mr Rickard, isn’t it? All sorted. Here’s an extra key,” she slides one across the varnished surface of the reception desk, “and if you’d like an extra breakfast in the morning that can also be charged directly to the room. Have a good evening, sirs.”

As they walk away, it occurs to Larry that this is the place to make an off-colour joke to break the silence. Something about how the receptionist no doubt thought they were off to shag like rabbits, except it doesn't feel very funny with that odd little twinge of fondness in his chest and he knows if he tried it would come out awkwardly - too real, despite him not meaning it. So he stays quiet, right through the corridors and up in the lift and out onto their floor and through his door. 

It’s tidier than he left it this morning. And not just because the maid service has been through, but because he left Ben up here to take a shower while he hid downstairs for lunch, because he’d woken up with Ben right in front of him and before that he’d found that stupid picture that had made him think in the first place and -

“Do you mind if we watch some TV?”

He coughs. “No, go ahead. I’ll uh… tea?”

They watch the end of some old film which Ben has obviously seen multiple times and Larry only vaguely recognises. He picks up more from references he’s seen subsequently than from what he remembers of the source material itself, and eventually excuses himself into the bathroom for a stern talking to.

And, you know, to brush his teeth and take a leak.

It’s very different, he realises when he exits, and Ben gets up to take his turn. Falling asleep atop the bedcovers when stinking drunk, and crawling in miserable and hungover are two very different things. They’re also both a mile apart from this careful unwinding. This feels more like Ben staying at his house after a writing session, with its pyjamas and toothpaste and film-watching, only Ben isn’t going to disappear down the hall and only reappear at breakfast. No. This time, Ben is going to climb into bed with him. They’re going to sleep next to each other - and not a quick on-set nap either, but a full night. 

It’s domestic, he realises. That’s what it is. Like they’re some kind of odd married couple - his eyes flick to Ben’s book and glasses already on one of the bedside tables and he darts into bed on the other side. If he thinks about this anymore, he might just end up being the one to schlep out to the Holiday Inn.

“Thanks Larry,” Ben says, when he’s taken the other side and the lights are shut off. His voice is soft and quiet in the darkness, and sounds like he thinks he’s being a nuisance. “You didn’t have to give up half your room.”

The duvet shifts with Ben’s breathing. It’s been a while since he slept next to someone - on purpose - and he realises how much he’s missed it. There’s something very calming about it. “What’re friends for?” he murmurs.

\--

He wakes up the next morning to an empty room. Ben’s gone, and so has his suitcase - there’s a note left propped up against the kettle that just reads _Thanks and sorry, again! See you Monday - Ben._

He spends the next three days mooching around, sleeping and eating too much and then walking it off in the sunshine, before slumping on the hotel bed with his laptop each evening. Then it’s back to work, and although the pace isn’t quite as relentless as before, there’s still a lot to fit in. There’s enough time for the odd improvised gag, though, and the more relaxed mood makes the filming fly by. He barely sees Ben - the Captain doesn’t tend to have many one on one scenes with either Robin or Humphrey, so he spends his days mainly with Charlotte, Kiell and Jim.

He does his best to forget. No, not forget.

He does his best to reframe it. Because it would be very inconvenient to develop a crush on his best friend. One, because it’s the kind of cliched plotline common to badly written romcoms, but secondly because it’s also the kind of thing that would linger and deepen, fed by genuine affection and time until it becomes - God forbid - love, or causes everything to fall apart. And he doesn’t need that. And it’d be ridiculous, quite frankly, for it to happen now, thirteen years after he first met the man Simon said had been hired for the mums in the audience (also according to Simon - Mat for the girls, Martha for the boys, Jim as everybody’s best friend, and Larry was only ever meant to be a writer but he liked dressing up too much so they let him join in the sketches to make up numbers. He’d been too much on the back foot to think to ask why Simon thought _he_ was there, and kicked himself for it for days). 

So no. No crush. _Definitely_ nothing more. 

The wrap party is a messy one - they didn’t get a chance last season, so it’s like they’ve rolled two into one, Prosecco topped up constantly and everyone letting just a little too loose. He watches himself though, unwilling to endure another hangover so soon, and instead records the carnage on his phone. He’s got blackmail on Charlotte for months.

He heads back to the hotel with a very drunken Mat draped over his shoulder, and feels smugly superior after forcing water down his throat, setting him an alarm, and leaving him to suffer. They don’t arrange to meet in the morning - why would they? They’re all just heading home, and they’ve spent the last two weeks in constant company - so he doesn’t see anyone before he checks out, and drives home early.

His house feels strange after so long away. Quiet and sort of empty. 

\--

_Ghosts_ is in the hands of the producers. They get a lookover of course, and they’ve already made suggestions and notes, but right now is the dead time in-between when he’s not needed for anything. He finishes edits on a script for a new children’s series the BBC asked him to look over and improve, and otherwise fiddles half-heartedly with a few ideas.

Normally he likes the chance to tinker, experiment, play - but he just keeps coming back to pirates.

Most of what they brainstormed is lost to him - it might be on Ben’s computer, or it might not. He remembers flashes though, enough to convince him it’s got legs, and enough to have his brain spinning on gags and puns to the point that he’s waking up at night to scribble them down. It’s way too early for writing though - if he really wants to pursue it then it needs storyboarding, and for that - well, it was a joint idea. There’s only so much research he can do before he feels like he’s jumping ahead and running with something that’s not his.

He taps Ben’s icon, and listens to the phone ring. Then it occurs to him that he could have just sent a WhatsApp.

“Hey, Larry.”

“Uh, hi - how are you?”

He can detect a curl of amusement to Ben’s response. “Fine. And you?”

“Yes, good - uh - pirates.” 

“The film! Or the general concept?” 

“Of the film?”

“No, I just meant - never mind. I’m going to make an executive decision that you’re calling about the film, instead of to geek out on pirate facts.”

It’s a bit of both, if he’s honest. “How do you feel about a little from option a, and a little from option b?”

Ben laughs, and he finds himself grinning in response. 

“Storyboarding, right? Give me a couple of days to brush up on things - how about Thursday?”

“Thursday can be arrrrgh-ranged.” Silence. He holds it, but can’t help breaking eventually, chuckling down the line. 

“You’re going to have to bring better puns than that, Rickarrrrghd.”

\--

He does bring better puns - a whole notebook of them. But they’re instantly forgotten, blanked from his mind, as the door opens.

Inconvenience, ridiculousness - it seems they don’t matter. There’s a definite flutter in his stomach. Just the sight of Ben makes his lips twitch helplessly upwards. 

Oh dear.

Well okay. The thing to do, obviously, is damage control. It’s not like he doesn’t know the man has bad points by now, so he just needs to focus on those until this all goes away. He’s a skinflint for one, taking his own booze in his suitcase - although come to think of it, he does always share when Larry knocks on his door in the middle of the night. But then, he can get pretty grumpy, and it’s absolutely not adorable at all when he folds himself away in a corner and then eventually gets over himself and comes back looking all sheepish… um. Okay, well how about the fact he’s become one of those healthy running nuts? That’s super annoying, the way he shows them all up by actually getting _fitter_ with age, with his legs and his…

Oh _God._

“You alright? You’re being strangely quiet.” Ben collapses on the sofa and pats the seat next to him. “You’ve been here three whole minutes and not a single pirate pun. I’m not getting my money’s worth.”

“They can’t come in singles, pirates pay in doubloons.”

Ben groans, then reconsiders and shakes his head in surrender. “Actually, make a note of that one, I quite like it.” He boots up his laptop and opens the file they must have started during their drunkenness. It’s still labelled _Pirite Scrpt._

“God, we were plastered weren’t we?”

“Intoxicated,” Ben drawls, and more of the night comes flooding back. Was there - was there a wikipedia rabbit hole where they started researching parrot breeds? He thinks there was. He thinks it coincided with Ben stretched out on his back and the laptop on his stomach, and Larry leaning over to stab at the keys himself, and laughter that shook the screen. “Okay, so we left it at me screwing everything up for Simon.” His eyes light up. “I should steal his parrot.”

“You’re already stealing his girl.”

“Only because she wants to go,” Ben says with a chivalrous tilt of the head. “But I’ll only save the fair maiden if she brings the parrot. And I get the ship,” he adds as an afterthought.

“So that’s Martha?”

“No, we decided she was a crewmate…”

“So… Jim? Mat?”

“Why not you?”

“I’m the dogsbody-”

“You can be both!” 

He shrugs.

“Alright-”

He finds himself tugged upwards, until he’s standing and facing Ben.

“Let’s say it’s you. For now.”

This is closer than he should be getting. With all these newfound feelings circulating, before he’s really got a hold on them - just being in Ben’s house is kind of dangerous. He remembers the room they rented to write Bill in, which was half an hour closer to his flat but didn’t have Ben’s sofa, or Ben’s spare hoodie, or the ready-made excuse to stay over when the beer and inspiration combined to let the last train slip past. He should have suggested that again, he should have thought it through.

He certainly should have come up with an excuse not to play Ben’s _love interest_ before the man was inches away, staring down at him and making his mind go blank.

“Okay.” He swallows. “What now?”

“It- uh.”

Ben breaks his gaze, one hand slipping up to rub at the back of his neck. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Ben was nervous. But what does he have to be nervous about? He’s not the one - 

“I think this is the - the heart of the film. Right? The Bill and Anne from Bill. Or like Alison and Mike, maybe, or-”

“The historical paramedics,” he can’t help joking, and nervous laughter bubbles out when Ben gives him a look that wouldn’t look out of place on the Captain. It dies away as he realises Ben is serious. “No, you’re right. But that means-”

He’s about to suggest that means it should be someone else. Someone who’s better at portraying the vulnerability needed - Mat, probably, he’s got that sort of thing down pat and it would go down well with their fans too, to have the two of them play a couple, not to mention echoes of Thomas Thorne pining if they played it that way.

“The chemistry should be right.”

“Yeah.”

Fingers brush, lightly, at his jaw, and then Ben’s lips are on his. It’s… it’s not the first time, there was that scene in Yonderland and they had to do take after take because it was _funny_ \- but this isn’t funny. Oh god. This is soft and sweet and isn’t going to help the whole crush thing _at all._

Ben pulls away and he suddenly realises he didn’t even really kiss back. What was this for again? Chemistry check? Except Ben looks kind of embarrassed and he’s trying to hide it but they’ve known each other too long, so he knows Ben’s acting tricks. He looks… upset?

This might be his one chance.

Before he realises what he’s doing, he’s hauling Ben back in. “Let’s try that again,” he mutters, taking a feather light kiss, then another. Then Ben opens his mouth, keeping him close, and it’s hotter and wetter and there’s nothing stage kiss about this anymore. He falters, but before he’s retreated two inches Ben sighs his name and pulls him in again and it’s so easy to get lost in it. Just spiral down to a world where there’s nothing beyond this slick slide of lips, the hands that clutch at his back, and his own, travelling, restless - now tangled in soft hair, now sweeping across strong shoulders, now gripping at Ben’s waist and drawing through the heat of skin.

Yep. Chemistry - check.

They part slowly. “If you’re writing that in,” he says slightly breathlessly, “you’re not casting Jim or Mat.”

Ben grins, eyes crinkling, and he’s hit with another wave of the familiar fondness. Okay, maybe it’s time to start calling a spade a spade. It’s love. It’s all tied up in thirteen years of friendship and history, but it’s more than that too. It’s Ben.

“So you’ll play the wench?”

He nods, and then a terrible thought occurs to him. “I won’t have to kiss Simon, will I?” he asks warily.

Ben grins again, like he’ll never stop, and it’s crazy how much that just makes him want to drag him in for more kisses. He restrains himself, with some difficulty. He thinks Ben might have caught the flex of his fingers anyway, by the way he raises one eyebrow teasingly.

“Not if we don’t write it that way.”

\--

He leans back and sips his tea. The laptop is balanced on the coffee table, so he rests his mug on his bent knee, hoping to overwrite the lick of warmth bleeding through his jeans from Ben’s leg. It’s distracting, but a Zoom call with the rest of Them There isn’t the time to be distracted. 

“...so any other business?”

They’ve mainly just been enthusing over the final cut of the Ghosts episodes - other commitments kept Simon, Mat and Ben away from the official screening, so this is the first time they’ve had a chance to gush about it together. 

“Yes,” says Simon in a clipped voice that plays off Julian’s politician vibe despite his current halo of wild hair. “I’d like to know why Larry’s at Ben’s house. Sitting so... close together.” He waggles his eyebrows, and Larry freezes for a half second before rolling his eyes.

“Because we’ve been writing for you,” interrupts Ben, "and there's only so much room for two in a Zoom window. I just pinged you all what we’ve got so far.”

“A new script?” asks Martha.

“Like Bill,” Ben confirms. “Although not, obviously.”

“Pirates,” Larry adds. “It’s pretty rough, but so far we’ve got Captain Gingerbeard-”

“-mainly for the gag of everyone addressing him as Gingerbread-”

“-played by Simon and loosely based on Blackbeard but less bloody and more funny. He’s useless but lucky, and fighting a battle on three fronts. First, against the combined forces of Anne Bonny and Mary Read, real historical pirates played by Martha and Jim. Second, against the British navy, led by Mat. And third, against a mutinous first mate-”

“-yours truly-”

“-who’s trying to steal Gingerbread’s ship, status and girl.”

“And that’s me too, I guess?” asks Martha. 

“Actually that’s Larry,” Ben buts in. “He also plays the ship’s dogsbody, of course. Martha, we figured you could be a crewmate though, in disguise as a man, and more and more people discover the truth as we go along.”

“So we just need you to tell us if it’s rubbish, and if you’re in. Before we get too far.”

“Do I get to be a pirate at some point?” Mat asks plaintively.

“Background pirates numbers 3, 5 and 8,” Larry says, laughing as Mat grins and delivers two enthusiastic thumbs up through the screen. 

“You’ve sent it over to us?”

“Yep. So...” he’s strangely nervous about asking. “Si, you up for it?”

“I always thought I’d be a good pirate,” Simon muses, spinning slightly in his chair and stroking an imaginary beard. 

“I think the whole point is you’re pretty rubbish, mate,” says Jim, as a wave of relief floats over him - although the nagging worry of Simon leaving is already lessened, sat on Ben’s couch with their knees pressed together. “But I want to hear more about the doomed love affair of first mate Willbond and wench Rickard.”

“Who said it was doomed?” teases Martha. “Maybe we’re talking more Darcy and Lizzie than Romeo and Juliet.”

They were all looking at the screen before of course, but suddenly it feels like every pair of eyes is fixed on them. Ben’s hand nudges at his, below the sight line of the screen. He looks down to find a phone titled his way: _Tell them?_

It hadn’t been a secret on purpose. Well, maybe a little. Just to give them a chance to feel things out as to how they work as partners, boyfriends, whatever - more than friends, anyway, without the scrutiny of the rest of their little group. It had been pretty easy as well, with everyone back to their normal lives after filming. He could come round to Ben’s for a writing session and stay a few nights, and nobody was any the wiser. The only time he even wondered was when he hauled into central London to meet Martha for lunch, sensitive to the tangerine scent of Ben’s shower gel on his skin.

They don’t have to come clean. It would be simple to deflect with a quip - or they could even lean into it, and still walk away as if they were just taking the joke a step further, nothing serious about it. Just like the kiss in Yonderland, just like Ben planting one on Jim in Bill, or Jim going for Mat. He thinks about waving it all away and feels slightly sick.

He loves Ben. It’s been almost two months, and it hasn’t felt like hiding, but to tuck it away now would be.

He turns to the side, quirks the corner of his lip, and pulls Ben in with a hand to the back of his neck. The kiss is slow, soft, familiar. Not played as a joke, but he’s aware, so painfully aware, they’ve got an audience. His left hand settles on Ben’s thigh for balance as hands land on his waist, a steady presence that builds as fingers brush light tracks up and down, then clench. The kiss deepens until he has to break away, he has to breathe -

\- and Jim, Mat, Simon and Martha are all talking over each other. 

They could still turn this into shock humour. He studies Ben’s soft smile, and feels an echoing one of his own growing. Nope. He’s not hiding that away. In fact, he needs more of it. Right now.

“Right, so read the script,” he says abruptly to the screen. “Send us-” 

“-wait, _Larry_ , either that was the best stage kiss-”

“-your notes, and we’ll talk to you-”

“-no way, bullshit, they’re playing it for-”

“-next week.” He slams the laptop closed and stands, dragging Ben to his feet and in for another, harder kiss. “Upstairs,” he manages to mutter between kisses.

“Ordering me about in my own house, Rickard?”

He pushes Ben towards the stairs. “Absolutely. Hop to, Willbond. You’ve got work to do.”


End file.
